


Still Fine

by MorpheusX



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Texting, apparently i only write reichenbach angst, too many parentheses for one's health, yowza this hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorpheusX/pseuds/MorpheusX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I could…send you a text? Every two hours when you're out of the house. To. Um. Reassure you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another sad Reichenbach fic for you guys. It hasn't been betaed or britpicked, so feel free to point out any issues that you see.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John shouted, one hand fisted tightly about his mobile and the other twitching towards a punch. "You can't just run off after serial killers, _especially_ without me, _especially_ when the serial killer has a gun!"

The runner in question looked mutinous in his personal armchair, a neat line of stitches trailing over his right bicep even as he smoothly rolled down his sleeve to cover it. "I don't see the problem," the detective (really, who let this man get a job involving _murderers_?) muttered. "It didn't hit anything important. It barely hit me!"

"That's not," John hissed through clenched teeth, " _the point_. You could've been killed if his aim had been better, and I wouldn't even have _known_ until they dragged you from the alley!" His jaw closed with a snap and he whirled, stalking into the kitchen for tea and a chance to collect himself. Sherlock went utterly silent behind him, which should really be worrying, but John was too worked up to care until a pale hand dropped onto his shoulder. Before he could drop the mug, his flatmate's other appendage snaked out and plucked it from midair.

"John."

Caught by the new note of hesitancy, the doctor turned to glare at Sherlock, who seemed somewhat smaller than he had before.

"I…didn't realize that it would affect you. I'm sorry."

John gave him a flinty glare - _sorry doesn't fix the fact that you almost died today_ \- and Sherlock blinked evenly back.

"I could…send you a text? Every two hours when you're out of the house. To. Um. Reassure you?"

Now, this was new. They remained locked together for another moment, looking respectively for honesty and forgiveness, until John sighed, the fight bleeding out of him. "There's an idea. Just don't go off without me, will you?"

Placated (and a bit pleased at having come up with a way to pull John from his anger, because an angry John meant bad tea), Sherlock nodded before retreating to his chair again. Looking slightly more cheerful, he promptly started to pluck an errant tune on his violin while John snorted and turned back to the counter, grabbing the detective's favorite mug from their cabinet.

***

_9:06_

_Fine. SH_

_11:06_

_Fine. SH_

_13:06_

_Fine. SH_

**13:26**

**Sherlock, what the hell are you doing??**

_13:27_

_Reassuring you, John. SH_

**13:29**

**Oh. That's…nice.**

_13:29_

_I'm fully capable of being nice. SH_

**13:30**

**I'm printing that one for the Yard.**

_15:29_

_Fine. SH_

_17:29_

_Fine. SH_

_17:42_

_Still fine. Out of milk, though. SH_

**17:48**

**I bought some yesterday!**

_17:49_

_Disappeared under mysterious circumstances. We need more. SH_

**18:03**

**If anything's in my room, tell me now before I get angry later.**

_18:05_

_There's an interesting smell. Otherwise clear. SH_

**18:14**

**We'll argue when I get back.**

**18:17**

**I've got the milk, be home in ten.**

***

_8:54_

_Fine. SH_

_10:54_

_Fine. SH_

**13:08**

**Sherlock?**

**13:15**

**Pick up your phone!**

**13:18**

**Sherlock???**

13:24

Do not walk home from the clinic today, Dr. Watson. A car will be sent. MH

**13:44**

**Greg? Have you seen Sherlock today?**

** 13:49 **

** Stormed in here earlier shouting about some woman's necklace. Couldn't make heads or tails of it. Ran off about two minutes later. **

**13:51**

**He isn't responding to his phone.**

** 13:51 **

** Shit. **

** 13:52 **

** I'll be there in 5. **

***

Really, John didn't know why he hadn't thought of this whole thing earlier. It was a relief to know that, within two hours, Sherlock hadn't managed to off himself or get kidnapped. The days when he didn't respond were days where he felt his left leg beginning to ache again (at least, until Mycroft or Greg or, on a few occasions, the kidnapper themselves sent him some sort of note). Sherlock's texts were so closely timed, too, that he could've set his watch by them (and, when he was the one kidnapped at one point, spent his time doing just that).

If only one of them had thought of this before and saved quite a bit of trouble and worry.

***

Well. "Before", "trouble", and "worry" were relative terms, anyways.

***

John woke the next morning After (it was capitalized; this period of After Fall and After Moriarty and After _Sherlock_ was an event deserving of emphasis) to the sound of his phone buzzing. He rolled over blearily from where he had fallen asleep on the couch, too miserable to do more than limp up the stairs and collapse, and grabbed the mobile.

**Eleven new texts.**

When he thumbed through the list, his breath caught.

**Seven texts from [Sherlock Holmes]. Open now? [Y/N]**

**Three texts from [Greg Lestrade]. Open now? [Y/N]**

**One text from [Mycroft Holmes]. Open now? [Y/N]**

_Seven texts from Sherlock Holmes_.

Suddenly unable to suck in air quickly enough, John punched at the most recent message, dated only two minutes prior.

_6:21_

_Fine. SH_

He blinked at it for a moment or so, trying to restart his brain. Tears threatened, but he held them back with force of will, unable to blink them away (to do so would bring up images of scarlet-alabaster-ebony- _pavement_ ) and instead simply ignoring their prickle. Heart in his throat, he began to open the six preceding texts.

_4:21_

_Fine. SH_

_2:21_

_Fine. SH_

_0:21_

_Fine. SH_

_22:21_

_Fine. SH_

_20:21_

_Fine. SH_

_18:21_

_Fine. SH_

If John had thought to check his watch (but he didn't; he didn't know that it had stopped the day before when he had fallen onto the sidewalk just after Sherlock had fallen from a much greater distance), he would have realized that it was frozen at 16:21.

***

He kept the phone. Sentimental, maybe, but John Hamish Watson never needed to hide behind a mask of indifference and a bit of cruelty to survive. Even when he started to date Mary (a nice girl, just the sort of girl that you could take home to your mum), he held onto it. When she bought him a new mobile ("That one's simply too old, dear! Wouldn't you like to trade up?") he saved it in his bedside drawer, charged it when it died, and left it on silent. Every two hours on the dot, it buzzed. The message still hadn't changed.

There had been a span of thirty-eight hours (he stayed up for each and every one) when the texts stopped. John wasn't sure what that meant. Had Sherlock's phone (apparently it had been recovered after his fall, probably by Mycroft; whoever said that the man didn't care - hadn't cared - for his brother was wrong wrong _wrong_ ) finally up and broken? At the end of the span, it buzzed with nineteen texts, all pouring straight in on the twenty-first minute of the hour. Perhaps it had lost battery; perhaps he or Mycroft had taken it out of service. Strange, though, that it stayed right on the minute. Well, he had long since stopped underestimating the elder Holmes' reach.

Every time it danced in his drawer, John allowed himself a brief moment to hope that it was something else, something like _I'm not dead. SH_ , but the message never changed. Eventually, he gave up hope and simply appreciated the seven-character (eight, counting the space) lie for what it was - a lie.

Sentiment.

***

"John."

***

He had been walking home from his shift at the clinic (a different one, since Sarah's sad looks had driven him absolutely mental) when the voice pinned him in place. He turned slowly.

 _He doesn't look a minute older_.

There was a tense silence, broken only when an injured noise escaped John's throat. He coughed twice, trying desperately to clear the tangled emotion clogging his mouth, before even daring to try to speak.

"All this time?" It came out as a cringing whisper.

With his unfathomable eyes glittering (tears? Actual _tears_?), the ex-consulting detective (not anymore, apparently) nodded.

"You. You never…I didn't know."

It was Sherlock's turn to make a hurt sound. He stumbled forwards, reaching out a hand only to hold it halfway to John's shoulder, as though he was just as afraid of the possibility of the other disappearing. When he spoke, it was just as deep as John remembered, but the catch there was new and terrifying.

"You…you didn't get my texts?"


End file.
